


Armour down

by flare (jiho)



Series: from the things we'd never say [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Bloodplay, Gangs, Knifeplay, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Scratching, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-10 23:40:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5605456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jiho/pseuds/flare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yahaba had always liked it rough, and Kentarou didn't know it any other way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Armour down

**Author's Note:**

> me: /continues to be trash in the new year. the original idea was gun play, but... there is no gun here.
> 
> thank you prescilla and krys for beta'ing this♥

Kentarou stiffened when he was unable to turn the key in his hand, finding it stuck–the door was already unlocked. He wet his lips before slowly pulling the key out of the hole again, tasting the slight tinge of blood and feeling a sting as his tongue ran over the spot where his lip had split just an hour ago. He moved as quietly as he could manage, switching the keys in his hand out with the pocket knife in his jacket. The blade glinted in the light as he flipped it open.

The lights were off inside his apartment, and Kentarou’s suspicion only grew as he opened the door some more, just enough to allow him to step inside. As he went further into his home, he noticed something odd coming from his bedroom, the door slightly ajar. The white light was weak, barely standing out from the light of the setting sun, but occasionally it flickered. With careful steps, Kentarou closed in his bedroom. From this angle, it was impossible to get a proper look inside the room, but there was no doubt that someone else was inside, and Kentarou briefly considered whether to quietly sneak inside the room or simply shove the door open and burst inside. In the end, he went with the first option. Slowly, he pushed at the door, his other hand tightening around the knife.

“Sheesh, it’s just me, you know,” a voice said, and Kentarou instantly relaxed. However, his frown deepened and he forcefully pushed the door completely open, making it bounce back against the door stopper.

He found Yahaba lying on his back on his bed, arms above his head, phone in hand and tapping away on the screen.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Kentarou demanded and squinted his eyes slightly to watch Yahaba in the darkness. “How did you get in?”

“You should really think of upping the security, just one lock isn’t very safe these days,” Yahaba simply answered, eyes still on his phone.

Kentarou felt his eye twitch, annoyed.

“Anyway, I’m here because Oikawa asked me to check up on you.” He paused, finally putting his phone away and sat up. “You haven’t been showing up to the last meetings, and you know how–”

Yahaba got on his feet and quickly dashed over to him. It hurt when he grabbed him by his jaw, tilting Kentarou's head slightly to get a closer look. No doubt, he was inspecting his split lip and bruised face.

“You got into a fight, again,” Yahaba said, sounding angry.

Kentarou stepped away from him, releasing himself from the tight grip on his face.

“Big deal, I beat their ass,” he muttered, but of course, that only enraged Yahaba.

“I told you to stop getting into meaningless fights! What if you end up messing with the wrong people and fuck it up for all of us?”

Kentarou just growled. He didn’t have a comeback for that; they had already been over this too many times. Realising that Yahaba was expecting a reply, he reluctantly settled with a _whatever_. “You got any more lectures to teach me? Or you can leave now.”

He stepped forward, forcing a surprised Yahaba to back away from him, until the back of his knees hit the edge of the bed.

“Or was there something else you wanted from me?” He asked and inched his face closer. Yahaba stared at him, his expression reading _pissed off_ , as it almost always did when it came to Kentarou, and Kentarou fully expected it when he was grabbed by the shirt and pulled down, the two of them falling onto the bed together.

It hurt when their mouths bumped into each other, and Kentarou tasted the blood more than he felt it in his mouth as Yahaba moved against him. Moments later, he could see it too, red smeared across Yahaba’s lips. His hair looked slightly dishevelled against the bed, looking as soft as ever, but his eyes were hard, nothing like the first time Kentarou had seen him, from across the room and so pretty that Kentarou wondered if he even belonged there.

“Your face pisses me off,” Kentarou said, and Yahaba frowned at him, mirroring his own expression.

“ _You_ piss me off,” he spat back, and then he pulled Kentarou down again, tongue swiping across the open wound on Kentarou’s lip before he bit down on it, licking at the blood as his lip began to bleed again.

Kentarou could make out the blood against his own tongue when Yahaba deepened the kiss, the taste bitter, and as he moved one of his hand to Yahaba’s hip, he realised he still had his knife in his grip. He pulled away, moving his hand up until he pressed the cold blade against Yahaba’s cheek. For a split moment, Kentarou had caught him off guard again, Yahaba’s eyes widening, but his expression quickly turned hard again, composed and bold, and Kentarou hated it.

He moved away from Yahaba and got up, so that he was kneeling above him, legs on either of Yahaba’s sides. He used his free hand to lift Yahaba’s shirt as he slid the other beneath it, turning the blade of the knife upwards. It didn’t take much force for the tip to tear through the fabric, and as soon as it did, Kentarou pulled his arm back, forcing the knife to cut through Yahaba’s shirt.

“I liked that shirt,” Yahaba scolded him, and Kentarou clicked his tongue, bringing his hands up to Yahaba’s shirt, careful with the knife, and ripping apart the rest of Yahaba’s shirt.

“You like this more,” Kentarou commented. Yahaba made no reply, simply lifted himself from the bed to pull his torn shirt off.

His torso was littered with scars, some bigger and far more visible than others. Kentarou didn’t know the story behind all of them; quite a few of them were older than his relationship with Yahaba. He traced his fingers down to the one on Yahaba’s right side, by the lower part of his ribcage.

This one, Kentarou knew well. It was one of the bigger scars on Yahaba’s body, almost the length of his own palm, and dark, contrasting against Yahaba’s otherwise pale skin. It was rough at the edges, the lines caused by a brutish stab. It was jagged, uneven. _Ugly_. In it, Kentarou could see Yahaba lying on the ground, in a small but growing pool of blood while his body shook terribly. He could see himself, his own weakness, his incompetence, and his lack of ability to do anything _useful_ , because no matter how much he shouted, no matter how he beat up the other guy, Yahaba had still been dying.

“Hey.” Yahaba said, distracting him from his thoughts. He palmed Kentarou’s cheek, his hand warm and comforting, and Kentarou relaxed, suddenly realising how tightly he had been holding onto Yahaba’s side. He eased his grip, forcing himself to take a deep breath.

Kentarou brought the knife to Yahaba’s bare chest, watching as goose bumps rose on his skin against the cold slide of the blade. He placed it a little below his collarbone by his left side, barely an inch from another scar, and Kentarou pressed down lightly, just enough to break the skin, but knowing that it was not enough to leave a scar once it healed and closed. Blood slowly surfaced from the cut, creating a red line.

There was a part of Kentarou that did want to scar him. A part of him wanted to be able to claim his own parts of Yahaba, to be able to say, _”These are mine_.” And his other scars would pale next to Kentarou’s; they’d be nothing, just ugly traces of the past. But it was alright like this, because Yahaba would always come back to him for new ones once these innocent cuts were gone, and Kentarou would know he’d still want them.

(Want him.)

Kentarou dragged his knife across another part of Yahaba’s body, on his chest, just below his heart, and this time he didn’t just draw the blade down. Instead, he curved it, copying the lines of one of Yahaba’s old scars and creating a poor replica. Afterwards, he found another spot, cutting another shallow red line on his body. And then another, Yahaba’s panting growing shallower with each cut that he made.

He pressed his hand against his last cut, the pad of Kentarou’s finger pressing down the drop of blood that has gathered at the edge, about to trickle down Yahaba’s side. Beneath him, Yahaba gave a quiet hiss, muscles tensing under his touch, and Kentarou pressed a little harder, watching Yahaba squeeze his eyes shut in pain.

“Come on,” Yahaba said, reaching for the hem of Kentarou’s shirt, and Kentarou allowed him to pull it off, dropping the knife to the bed.

He pressed their bodies together, Yahaba’s wounds leaving light imprints on Kentarou’s own skin, and laid them down against the bed. His fingers easily undid Yahaba’s jeans, but they were tight, and Kentarou had to move away to get a proper grip on them, so he could pull them off. Once he did, he tossed them across the room. He moved just a little from his spot, leaning down between Yahaba’s spread legs and coaxed him to bend them as Kentarou lifted them from by the back of his knees

Pressing a kiss to Yahaba’s inner thigh, Kentarou reached out for his knife once again. He pushed the tip against the spot he had just kissed, drawing a small line in the soft skin. A thick drop of blood slid down the pale skin slowly, and Kentarou dipped his head, lapping up the blood before it could fall and stain his bed sheets.

Another drop appeared only moments later, and this time, Kentarou pressed his tongue against the scar and closed his lips around it, sucking on the spot. The taste, as always, was bitter and unpleasant, but Kentarou didn’t mind, instead focusing on the way Yahaba whined and the way he grew louder when he sank his teeth into his flesh, muscles tensing.

“Fuck me,” he groaned, breathless. “Just fuck me already.”

“Turn around.”

Yahaba did as told, finding a condom and a bottle of lube to throw at Kentarou before he settled on his hands and knees. Finally putting his knife away, Kentarou reached for the lube and soon pressed his slick fingers against Yahaba’s rim. Remembering that it had been a couple of weeks since the last time, he pushed one finger inside, slowly working Yahaba open for more.

Unlike his front, Yahaba’s back had no scars. The skin there was unmarred. Perfect. Kentarou moved his free hand from Yahaba’s hip to the space between his shoulder blades, laying it flat against the soft skin before he clawed his fingers and dug his blunt nails down. He drew his hand forward, leaving angry red lines along Yahaba’s back while he pressed another finger inside with his other hand, curling the two fingers together.

Yahaba gasped, his own hands tight around the bed sheets, and Kentarou felt how he twitched around his fingers as he scratched Yahaba a second time.

“Shit. Shit, shit, _shit_. Fuck me, Kentarou, I’m ready,”

Kentarou added a third finger, now focusing on preparing Yahaba, and though he would have liked to tease him some more, his own patience had run out as well. Under him, Yahaba was writhing, his breathing hollow, and then Kentarou pressed against his prostate, spreading his fingers as he withdrew them, and Yahaba was _whining_.

“I _said_ ,” Yahaba paused, drawing in a deep breath as Kentarou entered him with his fingers again, “ _I’m ready_.”

Getting rid of the rest of his clothes, Kentarou gave himself a few strokes before he pulled the condom on. He slid inside Yahaba easily, with just a single thrust, and groaned at the tightness, resting his forehead on Yahaba’s back for just a short moment before he straightened his back once more.

Kentarou fucked him hard, with Yahaba desperately pushing himself back against him as if he still wanted more, couldn’t get enough, so he put one of his hands on Yahaba’s back again, doing his best to follow the still visible trace he had left earlier. He repeated the motion when he felt how Yahaba tightened around him, and this time, the skin broke beneath Kentarou’s fingers as he scratched him, red blotches surfacing.

“More,” Yahaba demanded.

Again, Kentarou drew his nails down Yahaba’s back, entranced with the marks he left and almost paused just so he could observe the way red was blooming beneath the pale skin. Kentarou’s other hand was on his waist, steadying them both in a too tight grip as Yahaba’s strength wavered and he dropped to his elbows. His back arched beautifully this way and Kentarou kept fucking him like this, snapping his hips in a harsh pace, until it become too much.

Yahaba’s moans increased in volume though his voice turned out muffled from the pillow pressed to his face, but once in a while, Kentarou could make out some of the words he was saying. It was always the same anyways, cuss words he once thought he would never hear Yahaba utter, demands of “ _more_ ” and “ _harder_ ”, and every now and then, “ _Kentarou_ ”

“I’m close,” Kentarou managed to get out, his rhythm beginning to falter.

“Yes, yes, just a little more,” he heard Yahaba gasp in between moans, and Kentarou gripped him a little harder around his hips, forcing their bodies together even harder with each thrust.

They came almost simultaneously, Yahaba first, his cock still untouched, and Kentarou when he felt Yahaba clench around him, pushing himself into him a last few times before he collapsed on top of him. Afterwards, they both fell to the bed, and Kentarou pulled out of Yahaba as he told him to get off him, slowly rolling over to his side.

He tied a lazy knot around the condom and threw it across the room, only barely hitting the trash can in the corner. As they faced each other again, Kentarou could see the cuts he had left on Yahaba’s torso earlier, red smudged at the edges of dark lines, though the blood had stopped coming out already. He wondered if there was any blood against the sheets.

Absentmindedly, Kentarou reached out and traced some of the wounds lazily with his fingers. Eventually, his eyes reached the large scar by Yahaba’s ribs again, but it was soon hidden from his field of vision as Yahaba pulled a blanket over their bodies.

“Don’t.” He sounded tired, and his touch was gentle when he grabbed Kentarou’s wrist, forcing his hand away from his body, instead resting it on the bed, between their bodies. “Sleep.”

It didn’t take long before Kentarou was sleeping, Yahaba’s fingers still around his wrist.

-

It was bright outside by the time Kentarou woke up the following day, and he did not have to open his eyes to know that Yahaba was already gone. Minutes later, when he would finally pull himself out of bed, he’d see that so was his favourite shirt.


End file.
